I guess it's pointless to say sorry, but I am sorry for crazy ridiculous wait you've had for this chapter. I wouldn't blame you if you'd already given up on this story, but if you haven't, thanks for sticking around, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Disclaimer: uh no guys, I'm am not Marvel, and thankfully, Joss Whedon writes the Avengers movies, not me.
When Clint goes to fetch Natasha Romanoff at 0700, she is pacing around her small cell.
"She's been doing this for two hours," the guard at her door tells him upon noticing his interested stare.
She doesn't look as if she has slept much, if at all, and she hadn't even looked up when Clint opened the door.
"Are you hungry?"
She stops pacing and looks up at him and shrugs, her blank expression telling him nothing.
"Well come on then." He reaches for her arm, but she flinches when he goes to grab it, so he backs off. "Follow me."
He's taken several steps away from the room before he turns to check that she's following. She's standing just outside the doorway, next to the guard.
"Don't you want her restrained?" the guard asks the question which Romanoff seems to be thinking, by the barely discernible confused expression on her face.
"Nah," Clint shrugs nonchalantly. "It's just breakfast. She's not gonna hurt me." He gives her a big smile, and she looks taken aback. "Let's go! I hear the cafeteria breakfast today might actually be edible."
He turns and marches on, and can hear her take a few quick steps to catch up to him.
"Why do you trust me?" she asks quietly. "For all you know, this is part of my mission, and I'm planning to kill you and everyone else in this facility."
Clint laughs. "If that were the case, you'd never succeed. I mean you'd probably get further than anyone else could, but there are far too many skilled people here. But anyways, I know that's not true. You're far too lost."
Her face turns hard, and she's silent for the rest of the walk, though Clint chatters on, pointing things out, and talking excitedly about life at SHIELD.
The SHIELD cafeteria is, thankfully mostly empty, though the few agents who are there predictably stare. The Black Widow is, after all, rather infamous in the espionage community. He leads her to the food buffet, and begins to pile eggs and bacon onto his plate. She only grabs some fruit and one piece of toast, and she's pretty thin, so he piles some protein onto her plate as well. She gives him a look, but he just smiles and leads her to an empty table.
"So," he says after a moment, stuffing a bit of eggs into his mouth. "Tell me about yourself."
She frowns. "Here? Aren't we going to go somewhere a little more private for interrogation?"
"No," Clint corrects her. "I mean tell me about your interests. What's your favorite color? What sort of music do you like? What's your favorite movie? Do you like any books?"
"Black."
"Okay," Clint nodded his head. "Well we're getting somewhere. What about the other questions? Come on I wanna know about you."
She seems perplexed. "I uh . . . I don't . . . I'm not sure what you mean. What sort of music I like?"
Clint gives her a funny look. "You do know what music is, don't you?"
"Yes," she responds indignantly.
"Well, what's your favorite kind? Who do you listen to for fun?"
"I don't."
"What do you mean? Surely you've heard music before."
"Well yes, but only on missions and sometimes during training. You listen to music for fun?"
Clint frowns at her. "Well then what about movies? Seen any of those?"
"Yes. A few."
"Awesome!" Clint exclaims at her, beaming. "Which ones?"
She glances at him dubiously. "Бежин луг. Uhh, Bezhin Meadow. Also Необычайные приключения мистера Веста в стране Большевиков, which in English is The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks. And of course we also watched Падение Берлина- The Fall of Berlin."
Clint frowns. He'd recognized two of the listed films as Soviet Union propaganda films, and guesses the third is as well. "We?"
Natasha nods. "The other girls in the program."
"How old were you?"
She shrugs. "I'm not sure. Perhaps six or seven. Maybe younger."
He sighs. "Okay . . . what about books? Surely you like to read."
Her head is shaking. "They taught us to read, but we were not allowed to read anything not provided for lessons."
Clint nods his head in resignation. "Well Natasha, once you're cleared, I'm educating you in pop culture. Prepare yourself."
She shrugs and takes a bite of eggs.
"Start from the beginning."
"Wait," she interjects. "Is this being recorded?"
"Only be me." He twirls the pen in his hand and nods at the stack of paper before him. "Eventually I'll upload this to the database and destroy the paper."
She shakes her head. "Only you can know."
"Sorry, but Fury's gonna want to know too, and unfortunately it's not up to me."
She frowns.
"Look, I'll talk to him. See what I can do. Maybe we can get it to a high classification level, that way only a few people can get to it."
She doesn't say anything in response, so he takes that as acquiescence and starts again. "Now tell me, where did this all begin?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Don't you remember anything about your early life? Tell me about your parents."
"My parents . . . I don't . . . I don't know. I don't remember them."
"Not anything?"
"I have no memories predating the Red Room. Except . . . dancing. I remember ballet. I think maybe I took lessons even before the Red Room."
"Okay." Clint hasn't written anything on the paper. "So then tell me, what's your earliest memory of the Red Room?"
"Fire. I guess- well that must be how my parents died. But Ivan took my hand. He saved me; took me to the Room. He's the only family I've ever really had."
"Family who took you as a young child to a facility which turned you in to a killer," he deadpans.
She shrugs. "I've never known anything else." And he's not sure if she's talking about her lifestyle, or having family. Probably both.
"And then what? They schooled you until you were older?"
She looked confused. "Training started immediately of course."
"Immediately?! You were five!"
She shakes her head.
"What?" Now he's confused. "You mean you were older?"
"No," she explains. "I mean I don't know how old I was. Maybe younger than five."
He nods in understanding. "It's been a while. You've probably forgotten when you went there."
"December 3rd, 1990. That's the day Ivan took me to the Red Room. It's my birthday I don't recall. We didn't celebrate much in the Room."
"Oh." He frowns. Well you said training started right away? Tell me about that. What did they teach you?"
Her gaze is stoic and relentlessly on him as she speaks. "The first week or so was as you said. We learned Russia's history, and we watched those films I mentioned earlier. One week in, there was a man. He had tried to betray Russia to the enemy. So they showed us what to do with traitors. They burned him and beat him, and eventually killed him."
Clint is shocked, and even more so by her unaffected tone.
"After that we were assigned trainers, and the days were split in three parts. In the morning, we got lessons. Mostly about Russian history and politics. And also the Manifesto. They did of course teach us math, reading, and writing."
"You didn't find it odd that you were only learning about Russia?" he interrupts her.
"I did at first. I asked the instructor about it. He told me never to question anything I was told by any of my superiors, and called a guard. He took me out of the room to beat me with a stick before I was allowed back in. I never asked again. I've always been a fast learner. In the afternoons, we split up and received personal training in hand-to-hand combat, and after dinner, we sparred."
"You keep saying we."
"The other girls. There were 28 of us to start."
"To start?"
She shrugs nonchalantly. "I'm the only one left. There are more girls there training now."
"Okay . . . so lessons, training, and sparring. Is that how your days mostly went throughout your time there?"
"Well yes. I suppose so, but they all changed over time, and sometimes something new was added. A few months in the treatments started."
For the first time, he sees a flicker of fear on her face. "What kind of treatments?"
"I'm not sure." The expression leaves her face as quickly as it had come. "They said they were to make us better, stronger. Maybe they did, but I . . . I always dreaded those sessions. The lessons change a lot too of course." She changes the subject quickly. "We started to focus on science about a year in. There was a lot about the human body, its weaknesses, and how it functions, as well as the psychological basis of pain."
"Weren't you a little young to understand all that stuff?"
She seems offended by that. "I am perfectly capable of learning. I'm not an idiot. Besides, most of the other girls were older, and if they could keep up with the lessons, I certainly could too. Anyways, once we learned all of that, they taught us different ways to kill a person efficiently, as well as how to keep them alive during an interrogation. And of course we also spent a fair amount of time working on our own pain and interrogation tolerance."
"You're saying the tortured you? For no reason?"
She frowns indignantly. "No. They tortured us so that if it ever happened on a mission, we would never give in. It worked too."
Clint feels nauseated. "Excuse me for a minute."
She nods slightly, and he calmly leaves the room. As soon as he comes across a deserted hallway, he leans forward, resting his head and hands on the wall, and focusing on breathing. He takes a minute to recover before returning to the interrogation room. The Black Widow appears not to have put off by his abrupt departure, but Clint thinks she is slightly paler.
"Is this supposed to be a joke?" she asks as soon as opens the door. She seems calm, but her voice is cold and deadly. "What are you the good cop? When can I expect the real interrogation?"
"This is the real interrogation," he responds evenly.
"Please," she scoffs. "Like I'd believe that."
He sighs. "I can understand how you might doubt me. It sounds as if you've never been privy to any interrogation that did not involve torture or violence. But I promise they do exist. Or at least they do at SHIELD."
She frowns deeply. "I still don't believe you."
He nods. "Perhaps in time. But I think that's enough for today. I'll take you back to your room."
He can see the disappointment in her eyes, and adds "do you want me to bring you a book or something?"
Her eyes light up for the first time since he's met her, and she actually seems alive.
"Yes please."
He takes her back, and goes directly to his own room, bringing her his copy of the first Harry Potter novel. There is almost a hint of a smile when she takes it from him.
Well, I would love for you to let me know what you think of this chapter! Constructive Criticism is super welcome! :)